


Maybe mother told you true (and there'll always be somebody there for you)

by Excuseyouclarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke Griffin, Barista Bellamy Blake, Clarkes a little lonley, Coffee Shops, F/M, Pining, and a little obsessed with Bellamy, who can blame her?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29463603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excuseyouclarke/pseuds/Excuseyouclarke
Summary: When Clarke moved to New York, she had one goal - to become an artist. She didn't need anything other than that, no friends, no relationships, just her job at the art gallery and her pile of canvases that would one day become gold dust.Then she meets a grumpy barista who really doesn't like her, and in her defence, she didn't make any rules about unhealthy obsessions.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 135
Collections: bellarkescord valentine gift exchange 2021





	Maybe mother told you true (and there'll always be somebody there for you)

New York City was everything Clarke had dreamed of and more. It’s dirty and loud, out of the corner of her eye, there’s always a rat scurrying in some corner, carrying discarded food from the floor. The people are rude and dismissive, at any given point she feels like a stranger in a strange land, a small town girl way out of her depth. 

She loves every second of it, the hustle and bustle, the tiny basement apart she has with neighbors who scream at 6 in the morning and the lack of natural light that she needs for her paintings. She should hate every second of it, but she just doesn’t.

Her mother told her she’d fail, with her job as an assistant in an art gallery and her string of failed relationships, she told her she was chasing a pipe dream. Clarke wishes her mother could see how happy she is, but if she took one look at her dingy apartment and the canvases strewn across the place, she’d turn in horror and never come back. 

Perhaps Clarke will invite her after all. 

Now, it’s 7am on a Monday and her neighbors are arguing over something—there’s always something. She trips over her light stands and stops herself before she puts her foot through a canvas. It could be her big break, but probably not. She says that about all of her paintings, one day it will be true.

Someday, someones going to notice her work and she’s going to make it. She’ll have her loft apartment with skylights and all the expensive paints and brushes she could possibly imagine, but until then, she goes to work, she puts in the elbow grease that comes with making it big. It doesn’t happen overnight, she knows that. 

The subway’s cramped and smells like body odour, a man with a shaved head and beard longer than her hair stands too close to her. The first few times she took the subway she got lost, it was possibly one of the most embarrassing things she’s ever done, having to walk into work half an hour late after giving up the ghost and taking a taxi. Luckily her boss had found it funny.

Her usual coffee shops packed, queuing out the door and Clarke has to wonder if she really is desperate enough to stand in _that_ on a chilly January morning. She’s not, she decides as a gust of icy wind blows her face and stings her cheeks, she’s really not desperate enough for that. 

There’s another coffee shop nearby though, never too busy, so Clarke has to question the quality of the coffee. New Yorkers are notoriously snobbish about their coffee, a trait Clarke soon picked up on. But it’s going to be a long day, so bad coffee is better than no coffee. 

Clarke takes one look at the barista and decides he could serve her dirt water and she’d still thank him for it. 

He doesn’t notice her though. Of course he doesn’t, why would he when he’s flirting with the blonde girl in front of her. Maybe he’s got a type—a girl can hope. 

“Order?” he grunts at her, and it turns out he does have a type, but it’s not her. 

“Large Vanilla Latte to go, thanks.” She tries to smile as best she can go early in the morning, but it wouldn’t have made a difference, he’s not looking at her. 

“Name?” He sighs, pen poised over her to-go cup.

“Clarke,” she informs him, somewhat awkwardly since he won’t even glance in her direction. The barista just nods and jerks his head towards the other side of the counter, she’s guessing that means she needs to stand there while she waits. The blonde girl in front of her is still making eyes at the barista, Clarke would be too if he gave her a second glance, so she doesn’t judge her. 

She can’t believe she’s never noticed this place before, it’s tiny and out of the way, sure—but it’s got so much character and charm. Chairs and tables are dotted around with vases of flowers in, Clarke could happily see herself here with her sketchpad, maybe she’ll get some inspiration for her next showpiece. 

“Order up,” the barista grunts, sliding her to-go cup towards her. Clarke takes it with a grateful smile but frowns when she sees what’s written on the side, not _Clarke_ like she told him, but _sweetheart._ She blushes and raises her eyebrows, thoroughly flattered except—that’s not her coffee. It’s small and smells like something spiced. 

“I don’t think this is mine,” Clarke pushes it back to him in disappointed confusion, he’s either got the order wrong, or she’s not sweetheart.

“Oh,” the barista frowns, looking over it. He looks at the name and recognition sparks in his dark eyes. “Bree, this one’s yours.”

Clarke tries not to let herself to be too disappointed, it was probably ambitious for a love at first sight scenario anyway. 

“Here’s yours,” it looks like the right one this time, at least. Except he’s written it to _Claire_ instead of Clarke. 

Close enough.

⛾

When Clarke moved here, it was on a whim after her third break up of the year and a falling out with her mother over her life choices. Clarke told herself that she doesn’t need anybody, she’s perfectly fine with her paints and brushes and ambitious spite. 

She doesn’t need a relationship, what was the point in it if it only brings pain? The crush she seems to have developed on the barista was certainly not in her plans. Nor was orchestrating her entire routine around seeing him. 

Mondays and Tuesdays she goes before work, she waits in line and watches as he flirts with other girls and consistently gets her name and order wrong. In all fairness, Clarke isn’t really a girls name, and the coffee shops usually quite loud, so she lets it go. 

Wednesdays are his day off, and Clarke works long hours at the gallery anyway. Thursday and Friday she doesn’t start work until 1pm, so she gets to the shop early and takes her sketchbook and pencils and sits in the corner with a coffee and a plate of pretty pastel Macarons and watches. 

She has a rule about relationships, she never made one about unhealthy obsessions.

Her sketches start somewhat simple, the foam artwork he makes on top of her cappuccino, his hands tilted pouring the cream, colorful Macarons delicately held between his fingers. Never his face, though. As much as she’d like to try and draw the constellation of freckles across his nose, she can’t risk being caught. 

He doesn’t notice her though. Perhaps she’s being optimistic that he ever would, since she doesn’t speak to him either. Although she’s not shy, he’s definitely intimidatingly attractive, and he flirts with everyone but her, so that’s enough reason not to even try. 

Saturday she orders a black coffee, as strong as he can possibly make it. He doesn’t crack a smile, but he doesn’t have to. God, she feels like such a stalker. But she’s got a long day ahead of her, the gallery’s weekly opening didn’t finish until late last night, and she doesn’t expect tonight to go any different. 

“Name,” he mutters, he never wears a name tag, which is annoying. She can’t keep calling him tall dark and handsome in her mind, but then, she doesn’t have to nerve to ask him outloud, either. 

“Clarke,” Clarke tells him, like she does every other day that she’s here. He still won’t get it right, though. “Like superman, Clarke Kent?”

The barista grunts at her, unamused by her joke. She waits over the other end, looking around the shop, like she doesn’t spend a ridiculous amount of time here. There’s a little corkboard by the seats, she’s never paid too much attention to it before, it’s usually just flyers for local bands playing at dive bars and small businesses trying desperately hard to make it in a city booming with failures. 

She’s never noticed the flyer for the gallery’s art show, though. Although her names not on it, she’s still a little mortified that he could turn up. Then she wonders who she’s kidding, even if her name was on it he wouldn’t know who she is. She somehow doubts he’s into art, it may be presumptive, but he’s never really taken that much interest, he makes patterns with the milk on the coffee, but she always just assumed that was the done thing, especially in New York when Coffee shops were such a competitive thing, and everything had to be _instagrammable_ here.

“Coffee’s up,” the barista informs her, when she looks at her cup, _Kent_ has been scrawled over the side. 

Close enough. 

But at least the Gallery show is a success, and she’s sold enough of her artwork that she can put a new display up. The only problem she has now is trying to figure out what exactly she was going to exhibit. 

She does have one idea, and really, it’s a bad idea. She shouldn’t do it, but she’s out of ideas, and a little bit obsessed with a coffee shop barista. 

Over the next week, she spends her spare time watching him and sketching, in the back of her mind, she knows that this isn’t healthy, this isn’t what she came here for, but inspiration comes from strange places, so she stops thinking of it as an obsession, she thinks of him as her muse. 

Some of the greatest artwork comes from having a muse. 

Her late nights are spent with electric stand lights turned up to full and pastel colors swirling on her palette. It’s how she sees the world, in swirls of color that come to her in a flash, it’s how she keeps her head up in this dump of a basement, she could give up and say it’s dingy and dull, or she could see the little bits of beauty that gather in the corners and keep on reminding herself that she things get better. 

She’s so much happier here than she was in her tiny town in the West, she’s alone, but that doesn’t mean she’s lonely. At home, she never felt lonelier than when she was in a crowd of people who didn’t understand her. 

Now, she’s got a job that she loves, that allows her to make art as a career, not just a hobby that was looked down on by her mother. She gets to talk to people at the gallery about the things she loves, about common interests and love of what she does. She gets to display her work to people who appreciate it, and not see it as a waste of time.

She sees the world as it is, but there’s always something else there, there’s always a beauty that no one else can quite get to grips with. But that’s alright, because her art can always show it. The pretty pastel sky that not many people get to see or appreciate, a chaste kiss between lovers outside of the subway before they go their separate ways. The small, seemingly insignificant things that most people miss, she captures forever on a cheap canvas.

Now, she she spends hours at night recreating her sketches, her stand lights glaring and her neighbors screaming. She lets it all slip away when her paintbrush glides along the canvas. She doesn’t need the fancy job or the picket fence back suburb life her mother would have her lead, she has everything she wants in a night full of delicate brush strokes. 

On Friday, she hauls her bags of canvases to the coffee shop. After a fraught trip on the Subway, she’s more than a bit cautious over her paintings. But as of right now, they’re her most precious possession, and possibly her big break.

She thinks that about all of her paintings, but someday, it’ll be true. 

In hindsight, bringing a bag full of canvases to the coffee shop wasn’t her best of ideas, she now has to try and navigate how to carry them and her coffee.

“Large black Coffee,” she puffs, out of breath. It’s come to show how out of shape she is—but she’ll be damned if she’s going jogging around New York in February. “For Clarke.”

Her hot barista’s there—well, not _her_ barista, but, yeah—the usual barista anyway. He eyes her bag suspiciously, but it’s nowhere the strangest thing going on in the city, so he doesn’t comment. Slowly, over the past month she’s been coming here, the coffee shops been getting more and more popular. She suspects it has something to do with hot barista, though he’s yet to her order right unless she orders something simple, like water. 

There’s a steady stream of girls he flirts with, they’re the usuals—along with Clarke who he pays no attention to. She suspects it’s the accent, or maybe the fact she keeps staring at him and coming back despite him continuously getting her name and order wrong.

God, she really is a creep. 

“Clara,” he calls, handing her the cup. It’s actually not far from her name, so that’s some sort of success. At some point, she’s going to have to take the hint and go back to her old place. If her show is a flop, she’ll take it as a sign. 

The coffee is close enough to what she asked for, there’s soya milk in it, but other than that it’s fine. 

“What did you get today?” Lincoln asks with a smile as she puts her coffee down and leans the bag of canvases against her desk. It’s become a ritual, coming into work and playing a guessing game of what coffee and name she has today. “My guess—Soy Milk Latte for Betty.”

Clarke rolls her good naturedly, “You’re not far off, it’s for Clara today—the first four letters is a new record.”

Lincoln snorts and peers in the bag, picking one of the smaller canvases out and inspecting it. It’s the coffee cup art, the cream shaped into leaves with a hand curled around the mug.

“This might be some of your best work yet,” Lincoln tells her appreciatively. 

“You say that about all my work.”

“Because everytime I see your work it gets better and better.”

Clarke tries her best to hide her blush. She’s still not used to hearing people compliment her work, after years of her mother telling her that the ‘pretty doodles’ she made were fine, but she shouldn’t be spending all her time on a pointless hobby that’s getting her nowhere in life. 

Her skills were unrefined when she first started working for Lincoln, she’s never done this before, shown her art work to actual people, so it never mattered if it was any good. She’s still undecided if it is any good, but that’s in the eye of the beholder—and the wallet of the buyer. 

She’s found her feet over time, got herself into a routine and found a style that suits her, though the pieces she’s brought in today are different, they’re more personal than anything she’d think of showing usually, but inspiration comes from unusual places and who is she to deny that?

“Does the display have a name?” Lincoln asks, they’ll have to start setting up in a minute, it usually takes a full day to get the pieces on the wall in a way they’re happy with, and another day to get the place ready for the showing.

Clarke digs through her bag until she finds her centrepiece, the to-go coffee cup with _Sweetheart_ scrawled on the side. It only seems fitting, it was the start of her obsession and it’s for the Valentine's day show. 

“That’s as good as anything,” Lincoln takes her bag over to where her display’s going, she takes it as a hint to start doing some actual work. 

On a plus note, The coffee she’s got today isn’t awful, and she actually quite enjoys it. It makes a nice change from some of the awful stuff she’s got from there. She wonders why—apart from the hot barista—she keeps going, maybe she should take the very strong hints, he doesn’t seem to get anyone else's order wrong, nor their names. 

It’s embarrassing, and if Clarke was really going to psychoanalyse herself, she’d say that she’s lonelier than she first thought, and her morning routine was just something to cling onto. She always said that she felt lonelier in a crowd of people, perhaps feeling alone was her way of coping, and a hot barista who ignores her presence and gave her the wrong coffee order was exactly the kind of attention she needs.

How pathetic. 

The displays take up the whole day—as they usually do—and it’s later than she liked to walk home by the time they’ve finished. But she’s satisfied with the world they’ve done for today, and there’s not too much left to do on opening day so she takes it as a success. 

“Are you alright getting home?” LIncoln asks her with a frown, checking his wrist watch. It’s sweet that he cares about her, her mother told her that coming to a big city like this meant isolating herself completely, that there’s no one here who’s going to care about whether she lives or dies.

Her mother always did have a way with words. 

“I’m fine, I don’t find New York nearly half as scary as when I first moved here.”

Lincoln snorts and rolls his eyes, “just because you don’t find it scary doesn’t mean bad things aren’t going to happen.”

She shrugs on her jacket and picks up her bag—a hell of a light lighter than it was this morning. “Honestly, I’m fine. It’s a 5 minute walk to the subway and a 10 minute walk back to my apartment, I’ll text you when I get home if it makes you feel any better.”

“It does,” Lincoln assures her, “see you tomorrow, it’s a big day so don’t die on your way home.”

The lights turn out after she leaves, and Clarke tightens her jacket around her. The beauty of the city is it truly never sleeps, even at this late hour there’s still people milling about, buskers with guitars and groups of friends going to the bar for Friday night drinks.

She should go straight home, it’s been a long day and it’s going to be a longer one tomorrow, but when she sees the lights still on at the coffee shop, she wonders what the harm is in going in and getting a drink. It's cold enough to warrant getting a tea or a hot chocolate—it’s probably too late for a coffee, she actually wants to sleep tonight.

She’s surprised when she pushes open the door and the hot barista’s still there, leaning over a book on the counter. Clarke tries to get a look at what he’s reading, it looks like some sort of text book. He’s been working since this morning, she’d have thought he’d be home by now. But then, she really doesn’t know anything about him, so it’s not up to her to make assumptions about his life. 

He looks up with a frown when the bell above the door rings, he’s staring at her differently now, for the first time she thinks he might actually recognise her. “It’s late,” he tells her slowly, “you’re not usually one of our late customers.”

“I suppose not,” Clarke smiles tightly, “you seem to have had quite the long day yourself.”

He nods, but he still doesn’t really look at her. “No rest for the wicked, what can I get you.”

“Just a small hot chocolate to go, thanks.”

“Name?”

Clarke looks around, there’s no one else here, and she’s not sure her ego can take him getting her order wrong when there’s no one else there to get it mixed up with. 

“There’s no one else here,” she points out, the barista just shrugs and turns his back on her to make her drink. 

New York is something else entirely at night, it’s vibrant and lively, there’s always something going on and Clarke could happily sit here and let herself get lost in it. But the barista calls out that her hot chocolates done, and she pulls herself away from the window and gives him a tight smile. 

“Be careful out there,” the barista calls just as she gets to the door, “New York's pretty unforgiving, especially of a night. If you’re not back in the morning I’m not sure how I’d explain it to the cops.”

Clarke tries to ignore the flutter of butterflies in her belly, and tries even harder to keep the ridiculous grin she knows is forming off of her face. “I’ll try my hardest,” she nods, letting the coffee shop door close shut softly behind her. 

The person sat opposite her on the subway must wonder what the hell is wrong with her, but the stupid grin won’t leave her—nor does she want it to. 

She knows she needs to get a good night's sleep tonight, but all she can think about is that he actually knows who she is. 

The next day, he greets her with a nod, not a smile, and he still gets her order and name wrong, but it’s something at least. 

She really is pathetic. 

Luckily though, there’s enough time in the day to think about it, there’s decorating to do and food spreads and drinks tables to organise—so by the time the opening rolls around, he’s almost completely out of her mind. 

She dresses in the toilets and does her makeup, tries to look at least a little presentable, and more importantly—like she actually slept last night. 

The gallery looks amazing though, and the valentines day displays have all come out beautifully, so the hard work and late nights of the last two days have all been worth it. 

“Is there anyone coming for you?” Lincoln asks as they prepare the last few things before the doors are officially open. 

“No,” she tries not to sound too disappointed, as much as she enjoys being alone, and she knows her works are usually a hit, it would be nice to have someone come and see all of her hard work and dedication. “My moms back West and so are my friends. It’s fine though, the work here keeps me busy enough.”

She doesn’t want to see the sympathy in Lincoln's eyes, she doesn’t need it—she’s perfectly fine how she is right now. “Well, Octavia’s coming, and you know she’ll talk your ear off so I doubt you’ll be short of company tonight. She’s bringing her brother too, said something about dragging him away from his work for a _night of culture_ ”

Clarke laughs, she likes Octavia, at least she does from the few conversations they’ve had. “Well, I’m not sure how much culture he’s going to get from a valentines themed art showing but hopefully he’ll have fun.”

She barely gets to see Octavia for the first half of the night though, it’s been a hell of a lot busier than she first anticipated—especially the more _provocative_ pieces, but they expected that at least. 

Her pieces are a hit as well, she thinks in relief. It may not be her big break, but it’ll bring in some money at least.

She’s making her third rounds of the night, and pieces are going fast so she’s kept plenty busy when she sees him—or at least, she thinks it’s him from behind. It could also be wishful thinking, because she somehow doubts the hot barista is looking at her display.

God, she hopes the hot barista isn’t looking at the artwork that he inspired. 

She watches as Octavia brings him a drink and sighs in relief, it’s not hot barista, it’s just Octavia’s brother. 

Except when he turns around, she’s more than mortified to see that Octavia’s brother _is_ the hot barista, and he’s looking at the artwork that he must know was inspired by him—or at least the coffee shop he works in. 

“There she is—” she hears Octavia announce loudly, looking right to where Clarke’s turning more and more red by the moment. “Clarke, come meet my brother, Bellamy. He’s surprisingly interested in your artwork.”

Clarke’s not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not, but with nothing or no one around to demand her attention, she has no choice but to walk over with a more than awkward smile.

“Bellamy usually hates this _modern art_ stuff, he’s dragged me around the Metropolitan Museum more times than I can count as a kid, but anything not medieval he hates. So him liking your stuff is a huge achievement, I thought I’d introduce the two of you.”

“Hey,” Clarke nods, _technically_ they do know each other. But they don’t actually _know_ each other, so Clarke really is at a loss of what she should be doing. Does she act like she knows him, does he even know her outside of standing in line at the coffee shop?

“Clarke,” he nods, a little sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning red. He’s wearing a suit now, a far cry from his usual black t-shirt and apron. She’s not sure which one she likes better if she’s being honest. 

“Oh, so you do know my name,” she jokes—at least, she hopes it comes out as a joke. She has this rather annoying ability to be deadly serious, even her best jokes are misinterpreted and causes friction. 

“Wait,” Octavia frowns, looking between the two. “Do you two already know each other?” 

“I’m a regular at the coffee shop he works at, he’s yet to get my name or order right though,” Clarke explains, trying to keep a light tone. Is she classed as a regular? She hopes so, she’s been going every damn day for a month.

“Idiot,” Octavia smacks Bellamy’s arm, he winces and pulls away from her. “I’ve told you about this. I’m sorry, my brother never got past the pulling girls pigtails on the playground stage.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Clarke tries as diplomatically as possible, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with flirting with anyone else who comes into the shop, just her.

“Oh it is,” Octavia assures her, “he’s fine until he sees a girl he likes, then he’s suddenly the most unsociable person you’ve ever met. Honestly, It’s—”

“Octavia,” he hisses, teeth gritted in annoyance. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, anywhere else?”

“Oh,” she looks between the two of them, although Clarke doesn’t really have a clue what’s going on. “Yes, sorry—I’ll just see you two later.”

They’re left in an awkward silence, and although Clarke is no stranger to awkward silences, this one feels so much worse. 

“I do know your name,” Bellamy assures her, looking back to the artwork. He’s looking at the _Sweetheart_ to-go cup, and Clarke is once again reminded of just how morfifying this whole situation is. “I just—it’s like Octavia said, I’m not very good at you know, speaking around pretty girls so, yeah.”

Clarke tries hard not to scoff too much. She’s seen him talk to pretty girls plenty over the past month, and even when she’s been alone in the shop with him he’s never made an effort to speak to her. She thinks she should probably just put them both out of their misery and end this exchange. 

“It’s fine, honestly. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, we’re adults, you can talk to who you like.”

Bellamy frowns, but for a moment doesn’t say anything. Clarke thinks that that’s it, she’s given him to means to go, and though she may be disappointed, at least she’ll be away from the misery of this conversation. 

“I always kind of hoped that you’d come back, you know, yell at me or something. I’d give you another coffee on the house and maybe put my number on it or something but you never came back, you just accepted whatever weird combination I gave you.”

Of course he’d been giving her an opening to come and talk to him, she was just too socially awkward to do anything about it. “In my defense you’re not the most approachable of people, and you seemed to like everyone who walked in but me. I was actually about to take a hint and stop coming—the place down the road had much better coffee anyway.”

Bellamy blushes and scratches the back of his neck, for a moment, Clarke had completely forgotten that they’re in a crowded gallery—and that she’s supposed to be working. Although to be fair, she could easily get away with it and say she’s talking to a potential client, she’s sure Bellamy would love her pastel Macaron painting in his living room. 

“I’m fine with talking to the girls i’m not interested in, but you came in that morning with a smudge of paint on your cheek and I really wanted to ask you about it but—I guess I just froze up. Every time you came in there was always something interesting about you—then you started sketching in the corner and there was no way you’d ever be interested in me. You’ve got an entire wall of your work at a Gallery and I spend most of my time at a coffee shop while I’m still trying to get through my Masters.”

She wants to laugh—or cry, maybe a little bit of both. How could he possibly be interested in her when she in no way has her life together, she’s spent a month obsessing over him, the proof is right in front of them. All because of a mix up of coffee cups. 

“I guess we were both idiots,” Clarke half-laughs, “I never thought you’d be interested in me, either—considering the amount of pretty girls that flirt with you on a daily basis.”

“They’re nowhere near as pretty as you,” he tells her softly, and Clarke might actually implode. “How about we start over, I’m Bellamy,” he holds out his hand to her, and Clarke has to laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

But still, she plays along and nods, “Clarke,” as she shakes his hand. “Like superman—Clarke Kent.”

He laughs and shakes his head, she had thought that was pretty funny at the time, and him writing _Kent_ makes it a little funnier. “Why don’t you show me around then, Clarke Kent.”

So she does, she spends the almost entire night by his side, him asking her ridiculous questions in a mock serious tone, and Clarke trying to answer completely seriously. She fails most times, especially when he asks questions about the more provocative pieces. When she’s pulled away for work purposes—and she has to remind herself that she is at a work event, and if she wants to make commission then she needs to be engaging with the clients, he never strays too far from her. 

Amazingly, she has more fun with him than she’s had in a long time, and for the first time, she feels like she has an actual sense of belonging. It’s been a long time since she’s laughed like this. 

“Did you know that I’d be here tonight?” She questions quietly at the end of the night, amazingly, most of her pieces were sold now, including the _sweetheart_ cup, even though she’s not sure who it went to, she’s happy her inspiration has gone to a good home. 

“Yeah—at least, I was pretty sure it was you. Octavia told me Lincoln was working with an artist called Clarke and you had some big showing at an art gallery. I thought it was either you or a big coincidence, either way Octavia thinks she was doing me a favour by dragging me here.”

She nods, and tries not to show just how ridiculously happy that makes her. She can’t be seen to be too enthusiastic, at least that’s what her mother would tell her. He’s not said anything about the painting being inspired by him, so she hopes he either hasn’t noticed, or he’s at least flattered by it. She certainly isn’t bringing it up, though. 

At the end of the night, he starts cleaning up with her, despite that absolutely not being his job. 

“You don’t have to stay,” she assures him, “we can get cleaned up, the more we do tonight the easier it is tomorrow.”

“What if it want to stay? Maybe cleaning up art galleries is my passion.”

“Then far be it from me to keep you from your passion.”

Lincoln apparently gets tired of watching them flirt after a while, because he turns to them in a huff and says “you know, I think that’s enough cleaning up for one night, why don’t you two go home. I can finish locking up.”

“Oh,” Clarke frowns, because now she feels guilty for not doing her job properly, and now she’s worried she’s going to be fired for being a terrible employee. “Are you sure? There’s not much left to do, it won’t take long.”

“Positive,” Lincoln assures her, nodding towards the exit. “Get out of here while you’re still young.”

Bellamy takes her hand, and she can’t help but nod—she really does want to get out of here.

The night is freezing, and tiny flakes of snow fall around them, and Clarke thinks nothing could possibly make this night anymore perfect.

“If you wanted to, I know a place we can go for a bit. I hear they do alright coffee, even if the place down the road does it better.” Bellamy murmurs as they walk through the windy New York streets. 

“That sounds good,” she squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back tightly. In the coffee shop, Bellamy makes them both a cup of hot chocolate, only she’s more than a little confused when he puts them in a to-go cup and brings back an armful of blankets from the storeroom out back. 

“Come on, I’ve got something to show you,” he grins, leading them out back and up a staircase. Clarke wasn’t entirely sure what to expect after walking up several flights of stairs, blisters on her heels, perhaps. Maybe even to be murdered—it is New York after all, and a hot barista being a serial killer isn’t completely unheard of. But for some reason, she didn’t expect to climb through a hatch in the roof and feel like she’s on top of New York City. 

The skyline twinkles around her, blue lights and sirens fill the air and in this moment, she’s never been more in love with New York.

She and Bellamy sit cocooned in blankets sipping hot chocolate, talking about anything and everything that comes to mind. For all the weeks she’s spent pining, he’s been pining too, both of them too awkward to actually make a move. 

This isn’t what she expected when she came home with Bellamy, she thought they’d be doing a lot of things, but nothing quite as magical as this. 

⛾

6 months later, they pool together and get an apartment together, it’s not perfect, it’s not the loft with the skylights she dreams of, but it’s filled with love and laughter, and at least this one has windows. 

The coffee cup painting he’d bought without her knowing sits pride of place in the living room, along with other paintings Bellamy insists on keeping. 

She didn’t get her big break that night, but she got something so much better. 

Now every morning before she goes to work, he makes her a Vanilla Latte in a to-go cup with the same thing written down the side.

_Sweetheart._

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for thebellarkescord valentines gift exchange! Just a reminded that I'm participating in t100fic4blm! [Check out the carrd here](https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co) to see all the amazing work that's going on!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr!](https://excuseyouclarke.tumblr.com/)


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